


Magenta

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Dom/sub, Dominance, M/M, Power Dynamics, Submission, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Sex, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-04 08:09:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4130634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meludir is granted the honour of being taken by his king.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Magenta

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Meludir has no special fondness for the act of hunting itself. The creatures that slip out of Dol Guldor are vile, disgusting things that eat away at the Greenwood’s flowers to turn it dark and murky, but spearing them brings him no pleasure. He wears his bow the same as all his peers, and he shoots the way Tauriel taught him, fast and true. His arrows meet their mark every time, a frown on his face all through it. But none of his efforts, none of any of their efforts, can match the blows of their king. 

When Thranduil joins the hunt, he’s pure wind, rustling through the leaves to sweep whole nests away, crushing every trace of soot out of their existence. He brandishes his sword and catches the light, and he can spear five creatures at a time, somehow deflecting all the blood. He remains untouched, unmarred, and when he straightens in a deadened clearing, every last hair will fall elegantly into place. 

Meludir eyes him with awe. There is no elf, no person, nothing in Middle Earth so fair as King Thranduil. Meludir is sure of this, though he’s seen very little outside their borders. When the hunt is finished, Thranduil slips his sword back into its sheath. He marches so calmly back to his elk, which stands tall and proud and calmly waiting for her master. He doesn’t mount her right away, but instead splays a palm back over her muzzle and idly orders the rest of his guard, “The hunt is done for tonight. You are dismissed.” His guards stiffen around him, casting glances at one another. 

None want to leave their king alone, but they do so at his command. Tauriel, at their head, gathers them all with a wave of her hand and stalks back towards the center of their kingdom. Meludir falls into line, only to have Thranduil drawl, “Meludir, you will remain.” He freezes as if turned to stone. He’s so rarely addressed by his king, and to hear his name on that sultry tongue makes him shiver in delight. He falls back, Tauriel carrying wordlessly on. All the others follow. No one questions his orders. They’re gone between the thick trunks and pale dusk only a few heartbeats later. 

Meludir ducks his head, honey-orange hair falling around his face. He walks towards his king, only too aware of the remnants of dirt and crusted blood that’s caked his uniform. He has a nick in his arm where a bat flew past him and tore his tunic. It’s nothing serious, and his Elven skin will heal quickly, but it pains him to present himself to his revered leader this way. Thranduil deserves only perfection, and Meludir can never hope to deliver that. 

When he stands just before Thranduil, Meludir asks, “What may I do for you, my lord?” His voice comes out small, breathy. His face remains bowed, eyes on the forest floor. He feels so _honoured_ for this opportunity, whatever it is. But he half expects to be scolded for his poor performance, or perhaps his lack of enthusiasm for their work. 

Instead, a hand lifts to the side of his face. His breath catches as Thranduil’s long fingers brush through Meludir’s hair, weaving easily into it. They wrap around the back, gently tugging and forcing Meludir’s chin to lift. Meludir dares to view the face of his king, whose shining silver eyes hold the traces of a smirk. Thranduil muses idly, “You are very beautiful.”

Meludir’s jaw nearly unhinges. He’s shocked and flattered all at once, and the mixture of bliss and disbelief confuses his senses; he flushes hot and tenses almost painfully taut. It takes him a moment to stammer, “Th... thank you, my lord.” Thranduil’s lips tug into the same smirk as his eyes, perhaps at Meludir’s gushing admiration. 

“These hunts can be very... stimulating,” Thranduil drawls, voice deep and alluring, twisting down Meludir’s spine as though to sweep him forward. Thranduil’s fingers trace down the base of Meludir’s skull, coming to linger along his neck. Meludir’s own arms are limp at his sides; all of him is boneless. Meludir can hardly believe his ears, yet Thranduil continues, “With such adrenaline and victory, I often wish for relief after these activities. And I imagine from the language of your body that you would like the offer of such a duty. Am I correct?”

Meludir can hardly speak. His first thought is sheer terror; he’s been caught staring at his king. It’s true indeed that his knees grow week around Thranduil, his cheeks often tinting pink and his body reacting, stirring beneath his thin tights. The idea of being able to _act_ on it is staggering, and all he can do is numbly rephrase, “You offer me to... to _please_ you...? My lord?”

“I would please you as well,” Thranduil nearly purrs, his palm now drawing down Meludir’s cheek, warm and impossibly soft for how much strength it holds. “I assure you, I am a generous lover.”

Dizzy at the mere prospect, Meludir somehow manages to breathe, “I would be honoured to accept this duty.” Thranduil nods, evidently pleased. 

Then his hand falls away, and he waves dismissively over his shoulder. “Fetch the oil from my bags.” Small bundles of supplies have been draped to either side of the elk’s body, but Meludir doesn’t immediately move for them. 

He will, of course, because he would never disobey his king, but he’s confused and can’t help but ask, brow furrowing, “W... why, my lord?”

One of Thranduil’s dark eyebrows lifts, and he responds, “To ease the way, of course. I would not take you raw.”

Meludir blushes furiously. It hadn’t even occurred to him, yet now it does, that of course his king can’t possibly know what lies beneath his clothes. Sheer numbers would usually denote Thranduil correct, but in this case, Meludir bows his head and admits quietly, “I... I am one of the other kind, my lord.”

There’s a moment’s pause. Thranduil says nothing, and Meludir’s first thought is the horror of rejection. He’s young and has only taken two lovers until now, both of which had seen his body before consummation, one in the bathing hall and another in the river. But surely it would take very little to make Thranduil realize that Meludir isn’t an adequate fit for him. A man like Thranduil deserves an elf perfectly build to his exact specifications, whatever they may be, and Meludir is still reeling from simply being told he’s _beautiful._

Finally, Thranduil takes a step forward. Then another, and Meludir is forced to step back. He’s marched backwards across the small clearing, until his spine hits the trunk of a gnarled tree, his sandals stumbling between the roots. Thranduil bears down over him, one arm lifting for a hand to hit the tree over his shoulder. He may as well be pinned in place. Thranduil asks, so sensual that Meludir couldn’t possibly refuse, “May I?”

Meludir doesn’t ask for clarification. He’d give his king everything he has, and he nods in acquiescence. One of Thranduil’s knees, hardened by his sleek armour, presses between Meludir’s plush thighs, spreading them open. Thranduil’s hand splays against Meludir’s stomach, his own ‘armour’ only covering his shoulders and pleating down the middle, the rest the traditional green-grey fabric of the guards. Thranduil’s hand turns and dips down, until his fingertips have slithered beneath Meludir’s tights, flush against his skin. Meludir’s breath hitches at the touch, and worse, the knowledge that it’s his _king_ touching him this way. He can barely keep himself standing. Thranduil’s fingers hold together and slip right between his legs, cupping him suddenly. Thranduil’s middle finger presses along the slit, already moist with interest, and his palm rolls gently at the top, through the soft hairs that cover Meludir’s entrance and over the tiny nub buried at the top of his lips. Meludir trembles immediately, his hands lifting—he wants to clutch at his king’s strong biceps or broad shoulders, but he doesn’t dare. Thranduil smirks all the wider, musing calmly, “You are wet for me.”

Meludir can only nod. He gets _so_ wet so easily around his king. Even a brief audience with the entire guard present can leave Meludir dripping, and he always touches himself after viewing Thranduil for any length of time, and of course he’s fantasized about moments like this, but he would never dare think they would come true. Thranduil worms his fingers against Meludir’s mound, clearly pleased with the juices it gets on his hand, and Meludir mewls uncontrollably. 

“Will you allow me to take you here, I wonder?” Thranduil asks, as though Meludir would every say no. It takes Meludir a moment to realize why his king asks instead of simply taking what he wants. Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—elves take far longer to develop certain things than the other races Meludir has only heard about in stories.

He murmurs, “I am not old enough to bare children yet, my lord.” He is, of course, old enough for things like this, but Elven fertility is an entirely different matter. He’s not even sure if he will or not, but that’s another question for another day. For now, he can take his king without any complications, and he swallows, trying to breathe despite the wonderful sensations Thranduil gives him. 

Thranduil chuckles, “A pity. You would make beautiful young.” Meludir makes a strangled noise somewhere between a gasp and keening. The moment he develops such, he’ll now run straight to his king to be bred as Thranduil might so wish. Any thoughts of restraint fly out the window under Thranduil’s fingers. Thranduil asks, husky and tantalizing, “But you have not answered me. Will you have me?”

Meludir moans, “You may take me anywhere, any way you wish, my lord. My body is yours.” _All_ of him belongs to Thranduil. When he looks up through hazy eyes, he sees amusement, maybe fondness across Thranduil’s handsome features, and Thranduil dips to press a chaste kiss to Meludir’s forehead.

“This is not what I asked,” he murmurs, “but it is plain to me that you desire this, so I will grant it to you.” Meludir would spill gratitude, but Thranduil’s pressed a firm kiss to his mouth, and all his breath is snatched away. Thranduil’s lips are soft and warm, a little wet, and a probing tongue traces Meludir’s bottom lip before pushing at the center. Meludir opens his mouth immediately. Thranduil’s tongue snakes inside and does a languid sweep of it, tracing everything, coaxing his own tongue to press forward. By the time Thranduil pulls away, Meludir’s so entranced that he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to kiss anyone else again. He looks at his king in complete devotion, and Thranduil holds his gaze whilst drawing down the sides of Meludir’s tights beneath the split in his robes. They’re pushed down his hips, peeled across his thighs, and ten fingers curve around his rear, squeezing at his taut ass and kneading his bare cheeks. Meludir’s hands fly to Thranduil’s chest before he can stop himself. Thranduil doesn’t remove them. So Meludir lets himself wrap his unsteady arms around Thranduil’s shoulders, just in time for Thranduil to grab his ass and hike him up. 

Squeaking in surprise, Meludir throws his legs around Thranduil’s hips. His feet latch onto the back like climbing a tree, and Thranduil surges forward, pinning him all the harder against the bark, so he couldn’t fall if he wanted to. His legs are adjusted, his tights pulled higher, more of him exposed and rearranged just the way Thranduil wants. It’s just as well—Meludir’s never been taken standing up. But he’s eager to try. One hand stays firmly against his ass, holding him in place and fondling his ripe flesh, while the other comes back around his front, cupping him between his legs. He’s rubbed from both sides and kissed again, his mouth stuffed full of a powerful tongue. His eyes fall closed, and he breathes in the smell and sounds and taste of _King Thranduil_. He’s never felt so lucky in his life. 

It only gets better as two fingers fit over the sides of his pussy. He’s spread gently open, held against the front of Thranduil’s armour and yet the warmth of Thranduil’s hands. A third digit slips down the middle, testing him. His inner folds are toyed with, even pinched once, stroked and teased and finally bypassed to his inner hole. He’s usually tight when he starts to touch himself, but for Thranduil’s fingers, he’s loose and only growing more so. He can feel his channel dilating in anticipation, his liquids dribbling out along his lips. Thranduil presses one longer finger into his hole, pushing up inside him, then crooks it suddenly, forcing Meludir to cry out into Thranduil’s mouth. When Thranduil ends their kiss and Meludir manages to open his eyes halfway, Thranduil looks pleased, purring, “My, you are an eager thing. It would almost be cruel at this point to _not_ fill you.”

Meludir means to say nothing. It’s not a question. But as Thranduil’s finger slithers out, Meludir clenching in its wake, he can’t help but whine, “You are _so_ handsome, my king. And so skillful, so powerful...” He breaks off into a moan, because Thranduil is parting his robes beneath his armour.

As he pulls his magnificent cock into the open air, long and thick and slightly curved, pale but pink at the hooded tip, Thranduil hisses, “Go on.” He presses himself between Meludir’s legs, so that the shaft slides along Meludir’s lips, and Thranduil’s chin hooks over Meludir’s shoulder to command beside his ear, “Tell me how much you desire me.”

“With everything I have,” Meludir gasps. Thranduil curls a finger under Meludir’s chin, guiding him for another kiss, and while their mouths are busy, the head of Thranduil’s cock is dragged down his middle, toying with his soft folds, before pushing bluntly inside. It’s very slow, yet so very _big_ that it’s still difficult. Thranduil is far larger than either of Meludir’s previous lovers. Yet he knows how to use it, and there is no pain. It shocks Meludir, that first push into the warm channel within his quivering lips—he can feel the tip stretching him wide. He tries to open wider, but all that serves to do is make him collapse, clenching a second later, and it earns him a grunt from his king’s mouth. He tries to be still for the next and let Thranduil enter as he will, but Meludir’s too giddy to relax. If he weren’t being kissed over and over, he’d be whining relentlessly. 

It takes several gradual thrusts for Thranduil to become fully seated inside. He rocks in and out, filling Meludir a little deeper each time, while Meludir quivers and squelches around the intrusion, his arms tight around Thranduil’s neck and his thighs clamped tightly to Thranduil’s sides. By the time Thranduil is sheathed to the base, the sheer feeling of being stuffed _full_ of his king is almost enough to push Meludir over the edge. For Thranduil, he’s very easy. 

But he gets more. Thranduil gives him that first moment to adjust, then ends their kiss to cup Meludir’s face, the other hand stroking around Meludir’s rear and thigh. He begins to draw out, and Meludir whimpers instantly, his head tilting back and his brow scrunching together. He wants to clamp down and keep Thranduil inside him. 

Thranduil only gets to the head, then pushes swiftly back inside. Meludir gasps, nearly tossed up along the trunk. A stab of pleasure licks up his spine, but Thranduil is drawing out again before he can savour it. Another thrust fills him to the brim. Another, then another, and each time Meludir gasps, body tensing and releasing, his hips wanting to lurch forward but having no room; he’s held fiercely in place and is helpless to his king’s whims. Just as he would have it. He can’t help his needy whines, but he tries to keep his mouth open, wanting desperately to be kissed again; he wants as much contact as he can, but Thranduil spends several moments simply pounding into Meludir and watching his face respond to every movement. He’s always been sensitive and can’t seem to control himself; his hips are trembling beyond his control, and the brush of Thranduil’s cock along his inner walls ricochets a delicious feeling all the way up to his throat, his mouth, his eyes. His cheeks are burning. His brows stay knit together, but his muscles twitch each time he’s pushed into. Thranduil’s thrusts are quick and harsh, all the way in and filling him completely every time. Thranduil _consumes_ him. 

Then Thranduil ducks forward and slam back against his lips, and Meludir is so overwhelmed that he can’t respond. His mouth goes lax, his body wracked with the tremours of _pleasure_. Thranduil kisses him ravenously, sucks on his tongue and bites into his lips and grinds the back of his skull against the tree. His ass slaps into it with each thrust. His walls are parted for Thranduil’s rock-hard girth, and then he’s left agonizingly empty, helpless, and he’s impaled again, and he wonders how he’ll ever survive without this when Thranduil’s gone. It’s so painful to be empty when he can house the pleasure of Thranduil’s cock. He tries to suck at it, tighten around it, tilt his hips to take as much as he can, because he wants to be good for his king—mostly, he wants this again. He would have this every night, if he could. Every morning. He has no love for hunts—he would far rather _this_ be his duty, and that he spent his days warming his king’s bed, chained to the headboard with spread legs, meant for nothing but satiating Thranduil’s lust. 

He could never make it, of course. He isn’t worthy. He tries to kiss Thranduil back but barely can. Thranduil doesn’t seem to mind—he dominates Meludir so easily. His fingers wrap into the back of Meludir’s hair, holding him in place, the rest clawing at Meludir’s ass and holding him there. Thranduil fucks him like a wild animal, a _beast_ claiming a mate. Meludir should’ve known Thranduil would fuck how he fights: strong and efficient and beautiful.

Meludir loses track of time, but it soon becomes obvious that he won’t last. He wants to—he wants to hang on until daylight, maybe longer, but it’s far too good. He wants this too much. Thranduil knows just how to touch him, how to rub him and roll in at just the right angle, dragging along his lips and flattening against his entire body. The kiss itself might be enough to do him in. In between taking his king’s tongue, Meludir tries to gasp, “M-my... lord... I...” Thranduil stops only long enough to let Meludir whine, high-pitched and wanton, “I can’t, I—!”

He explodes a second later. Stars cascade before his eyes, and fire overruns his body, a cloying heat sweeping away all his consciousness to leave him weightless, pure _feeling_. It’s absolutely _wonderful_. He’s fucked right through it, but the jostling doesn’t at all diminish the gravity of his orgasm—the most intense he’s ever had. He’s shaking violently, panting hard and sweating and nearly crying from all the overwhelming sensations, and by the time he does start to come back down, he’s nothing but a wreck. 

And Thranduil continues to plow him into the tree. His knees have lost their power, but Thranduil holds his ass and fills him all the same. Meludir takes several dozen thrusts before he has the wherewithal to tighten the grip of his thighs again, his arms stiffening. He feels vaguely sore between his legs but still doesn’t want it to stop. Thranduil pauses kissing him to let him breathe, but only for a moment. 

Thranduil’s thrusts never falter. He seems to go for an absurdly long time, steady and even but merciless, and Meludir quickly grows warm again. It isn’t something he’s used to—he usually rests afterwards, but Thranduil gives him no chance to leave arousal. Before long, he’s writhing in place, squirming and whimpering on Thranduil’s cock, and Thranduil kisses to the side of his mouth, then nips at his chin, biting along his jaw. He tilts his head accordingly and lets Thranduil kiss down his neck, while he keens and begs for his king. 

He comes a second time, just as Thranduil slams him forward so harshly that he’s winded, the tree seeming to shake. Thranduil snarls against him, and suddenly, a hot, sticky liquid is bubbling up inside him. It gathers with his own juices, and Thranduil’s cock is too big to give it any room, so it drizzles out around his sides, slicking along Meludir’s thighs and dragged with the continued thrusts. Thranduil milks himself out, pounding away and expending more seed every time. Meludir tries to hold onto it. He wants to be _soaked_ in it. He wishes they were in Thranduil’s private chambers, both naked, so that he could see his king’s gorgeous body and feel the spray of his king’s royal seed all over his skin. Instead, only his crotch is drenched. He takes every load with utter happiness, until Thranduil’s thrusts slow, and finally, they stop.

Meludir is spent. He’s still trembling, limp again and useless. Even Thranduil takes a moment to breathe, his mouth detaching from Meludir’s throat. Still buried inside, Thranduil murmurs, a tad raspy, “That was very... pleasing.”

Meludir pants a pathetic, “Thank you, my lord.” Thranduil looks like he might chuckle but instead pecks Meludir’s sweaty forehead. Elves shouldn’t exhaust so easily, but this sex has drained Meludir far more than a battle ever could. It’s choked him both physically and emotionally, but it was thoroughly worth every second. 

Thranduil muses, “I will use you again, I think, if you should be so inclined.”

Meludir wants to say that he’ll always be so, but he doesn’t have the breath to speak again, so he only nods. When Thranduil says no more, Meludir licks his lips and weakly manages, “ _Please_.”

Thranduil steps back suddenly. No longer pinned in place, Meludir fumbles, his legs giving out but his arms latching tighter to Thranduil’s shoulders. Thranduil sweeps one arm beneath his knees before he can fall, swinging them up. He’s swiftly gathered into Thranduil’s arms, held beneath his legs and back against Thranduil’s chest. It’s like something out of a dream, and Meludir prays not to wake. 

Thranduil spares him one last look, gaze sweeping down his body, from his flushed face to his bared crotch, thighs clamped together to hold onto what they can but nonetheless leaking profusely a mixture of their clear and white liquids. He doesn’t have the coherency to cover himself up again right now. 

Then Thranduil turns back towards his elk, who’s waited patiently and silently. Meludir had almost forgotten her. Yet she lowers herself accordingly when Thranduil approaches, allowing him to lift Meludir onto her back. Meludir sits sideways on the grand creature and quickly pulls his tights back up beneath his robes while Thranduil mounts behind him. 

He’s gathered back into Thranduil’s arms, which reach to either side of him to draw the reins. It’s for the best; he’s probably too dizzy to make it back on his own. And this is far superior. He can feel Thranduil’s warmth and strength all around him. He couldn’t have wished for a better ending to their encounter. 

It continues all the way back to Thranduil’s tower, where Meludir’s returned to his own quarters, after a kiss on the cheek and the promise of _more._


End file.
